Misplaced
by skyfishmeotjin
Summary: Masumi wakes up on the shores of someone else's dream.


For several nights, Masumi lay awake. He wasn't sure when he regained consciousness or when he noticed, but the feeling that he'd been there for a long time settled on him like snow, collecting until he couldn't deny it as truth. The walls felt cold, which he thought was odd. The last thing he remembered was being warm, soaked in blood and his nerves on fire. There was a lot of noise then too; his skin snapping under strain, the deep, mournful wails of the thing that tore him apart still ringing in his ears, but it seemed foreign against the walls that held him now. He could faintly see the shadows where blood had pooled from something violent, but it didn't seem authentic somehow. Such a mess was left in the cramped storestroom but he couldn't sense the history behind it. Gently, he raised his right arm to brush against the wall, to feel the dirt and dried stains, and his touch confirmed it. While it may look similar, this wasn't the closet he'd spent his last moments.

What was it then? He didn't expect to get so angry, yet his fingers curled into fists. _I'm not where I'm supposed to be._ For some reason, it made him feel terrible, like he was wrong for just being there, imaginary like the surroundings. The anger slowly ebbed and he wondered where he was supposed to be. Almost as if to answer his question, a glint of something silver twinkled in the darkness as it fell from his pocket. It hit the wooden floor with a peculiar thud, not the type of noise he was expecting for the surface, and scooped it up between his fingers, squinting as he brought it closer in the darkness.

_I have to go back, give this to her._

He felt ashamed; in the instant before she appeared in his thoughts, he tried to shut Miyako out. He couldn't bring himself to picture her face, healthy or otherwise. He knew he'd let her down. He lay in bits while she waited, depending on his return with a plan or escape, growing weaker by the second.

Where was she now? Did she go through that completely alone? Is she still hiding somewhere, calling for him? The thought alone was enough to force a sob from his throat. _I have to move, go back and see her..._

Slowly, he dragged himself upright.

The atmosphere of the house was different, more so now that he could wander the halls and see for himself. Snow drifted past the barred window of the kimono room, never touching the ground as there was no village path. The ruined house opposite this one was missing too. He couldn't open the front door, now decorated with a blue flame, or access rooms he could previously. The rooms didn't even match any more.

Cold air seeped in through every gap to the outside, collecting near the ceiling and creating a chill like ice from above. The cloth that hung in the hallway had frosted over and the faint sounds of movement that once made the house feel alive were frozen too, replaced by silence. Everything felt huddled and asleep, like it was trying to keep warm. Though mostly every detail was recreated perfectly, the village had been painted onto a different canvas, the colours colder. The more he saw of it, the emptier he felt. _I'm not where I'm supposed to be, she won't be here..._

Then amongst the blue, a flash of red pierced his vision: a diary. Seeming to move weightlessly, Masumi drifted towards the old sunken fireplace with a twinge of fear. He'd done this before, a million times. A diary so vividly crimson it bled onto his hands would appear, a woman's laughter tearing through the pages, twin girls holding Miyako's pen begging not to be killed - he would read it all and wonder if he was going mad. Every night in the village was the same and when you thought it was over you'd be following your own footsteps again. Had that carried over here?

No, this one's different, he noticed. The pages were fewer and the hand writing looked like Miyako's, but not entirely. Even the words didn't hold her personality exactly, as if this were a person's attempt at explaining who Miyako was without really knowing her. Not sure if he was relieved or frustrated, he read the words desperately:

Masumi, it's Miyako.

I came to find you.

Let's go back together.

If we're two, maybe we can leave.

If you read this, shout for me.

Because I'm close.

Stay strong.

It was the same sentiment but by a different author. He felt exhausted. Having her thoughts on paper made her feel close, but they weren't left by her. She'd never been here before and probably never would be. Who left them then? Why would they do this to him? Unable to prevent himself, Masumi crumbled the paper in his fist hoping to never read it ever again. He was done reading diaries and exploring dead ends. With her ring in his pocket, he wouldn't stop until he found her. It was a symbol of too much to give up now.

As if called by his determination, a lazy blur of red deeper than that of the diary fluttered across the room, dancing in the air in a beckoning gesture. The butterfly's wings seemed heavy as they flapped with effort, whether due to the temperature or the same feeling of tiredness as Masumi he couldn't tell, but it was the nicest thing he'd seen in a long time. As light as the butterfly, he drifted through the air and followed behind, reflexively holding onto the ring in his pocket, the only thing with any warmth here.


End file.
